Bijin Hakumei
by Kivalle
Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, there are many dead with few left to pick up the pieces. Who hurts the most, except those who've lost ones they've loved in secret? The title roughly translates to "Beautiful women have unfortunate fates" from Japanese.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Long story short: terribly sorry it's taken forever. I'm editing the first three chapters before continuing. Don't hate me please? :)

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The sound of thunder rolling in the distance could be heard, with it the promise of rain coming to cleanse the earth. The wind gently shook the trees and swept through the neat rows of stone structures, chilling the small group standing gathered among them. The sky was a desolate gray, making the entire world seem less bright even though the sun was surely shining somewhere. The dark clouds bringing the rain loomed off to the west, cutting off any hope of sunlight for the day.

Then again, funerals always seem to tone down the brightness of life, even on the best of summer days. Unfortunately for those assembled, it was the middle of February (the fourteenth, to be exact) and the wind blowing past cut through the heavy clothing protecting them from the harsh English winter. One in particular had more than the wind to blame for her lack of warmth, and she pulled her scarf tighter around her neck to stave off the careless gusts fighting to pull her hair out of its carefully created perfection. She had no easy fix for the other chill racing up and down her spine, no spell or incantation to warm her up for a good long while.

Today's funeral was no different. The group, composed of the deceased's family and closest of friends, found little comfort as the priest—insisted upon by her parents—intoned the final rights as the casket was lowered into the ground. It was not really standard practice for there to be muggle religious leaders at wizarding funerals, but then Hermione Granger's parents were both muggles. It helped them with the already difficult burden of burying their only child, so the priest was silently accepted by the rest of those present.

Aside from the Grangers, the majority of the group had brilliant red hair. The Weasley clan turned out in force, the youngest clinging to a young dark-haired man with a rather odd scar on his forehead. On the arm of another scarred individual, an attractive blond woman stood with tears flowing freely, if quietly, from her eyes. Her mascara, once perfectly done, now ran in two distinct lines down her cheeks. Had any of the others bothered with makeup, their faces would mirror hers. Not everyone's grief was as quiet as she—the matriarch of the redheads was sobbing loudly on her husband's shoulder.

She was yet another casualty in the Battle of Hogwarts. None of those assembled had actually witnessed the tragic event that took Hermione from them that horrible night. A witness explained that he saw her dueling with one of the Death Eaters, hurling spell after spell at the other, until a green burst of magic struck her squarely in the chest. He tried to tell them about the sickening thud which followed, but the howling emitted from Molly Weasley silenced his retelling. When able to continue his story, he related that the Death Eater, seeing her deed done, took to the air as the wispy black cloud Voldemort's followers preferred and disappeared to another section of the battlefield. When the battle finished, Hermione's body was discovered where it fell, and was taken into the Great Hall to lay amongst the dead.

That was several days ago. The school had since been put into some semblance of order; the bodies were identified and sent home, and the funerals began.

When the priest finished and the coffin was buried, the group dispersed. Her parents walked towards their car and the group of redheads went in the opposite direction, the dark-haired man with them. Only the blond lingered, a single red rose held in her fingers that she had kept hidden in the folds of her coat. She kissed it gently and knelt down, placing it on the fresh mound under the headstone which read, "Here lies Hermione Jean Granger: Beloved Daughter and Friend."

In a way, the blond refused to believe what had happened. Something deep down inside her whispered that this wasn't right. Even though she had held Hermione's cold hands in hers in the still darkness of the Great Hall that first night and silently wept over her body, Fleur couldn't believe it. Couldn't or wouldn't, it was hard to say. Hermione meant more to her than words could express.

And now she was gone. Dead and buried.

Fleur clung to the desperate voice inside her head that whispered to her that they would meet again, somehow, some way. She knew it was right, or maybe she was just delusional. She didn't really care at this point. She could practically feel the depression setting in as she turned her back on the tombstone, walking on towards an uncertain future where the girl she loved would not be.

Needless to say, she was not looking forward to it in the slightest.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Revised chapter.

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The sun shone in through the large window facing east, allowing the bright morning rays to illuminate the golden hair that rested itself upon the pillow, turning them into spun gold. The woman stirred, half opening her eyes and turning over with a smile on her face, ready to greet her lover for the day. Finding the other half of her bed empty, her eyebrows came together in a slight frown as she stretched, looking at the clock. It read ten o'clock; she had slept in.

The sound of someone moving about could be heard coming from the kitchen, which answered that question. Yawning, she stretched again, reveling in the bed's warmth a little bit longer. Looking around, she took in the beauty of the bedroom they had designed and decorated together. Plush white carpeting spread from wall to wall, perfectly matching the white canopy surrounding their bed. The walls, a splendid shade of gold, were decorated every few feet with paintings that added splashes of red, green, and many other colors to the room. Their dressers stood in a corner next to the large walk-in closet they shared. A door led to their private bathroom, as lavish as the bedroom itself, and another one the opposite wall led to the rest of the house.

Fleur finally threw the covers off and stood, padding barefoot towards the kitchen. She could hear humming in the hallway as she approached; it was a small thing the brunette coming into view did only when she was completely at peace and content. Her back was to Fleur, yet her attire closely resembled Fleur's: a tank top and pair of shorts to sleep in. The window over the sink was open, allowing a fresh breeze and the sound of birds into the kitchen. The aroma of coffee drifted about.

She came up behind the brunette and wrapped her arms around her waist, pulling her close and whispering in her ear, "That smells good, but you smell even better."

The woman in her arms turned, a large smile on her face as she leaned in and planted a soft kiss on Fleur's lips.

"It tastes good, but you taste even better." Hermione's eyebrow rose suggestively, and Fleur laughed. "We're even."

They kissed again, birds singing in the background. The soft sunlight filtering through the window grew brighter until it was almost unbearably bright, making Fleur wince through her closed eyes.

And then Fleur woke up.

Her eyes opened to the dusk created by the dark blue curtains hanging in front of the large bay window to her left. She sat up, glancing at the clock next to the bed. 7:30. Time for her to get up and start the day. Each sunrise brought with it a different level of difficulty for Fleur to rouse herself. Some days it was easier to put her feet on the floor and force herself through the motions of living without Hermione. Then there were days like today, where the reality following that recurring dream was not something she wished to face.

But she did it anyway. It's what Hermione would have wanted her to do.

An hour later found her walking briskly down the crowded London streets towards the Leaky Cauldron, which she passed through quickly on her way to work. She never tarried longer than necessary with the less-than-desirables who frequented this particular pub, no matter how badly she felt she needed a swig of firewhiskey to help her though the day. Her heels clicked loudly against the cobblestones as she hurried down Diagon Alley towards the new boutique she had opened recently, a high-end clothing store designed for modern and fashionable young witches and wizards.

As she approached her store she saw that Roger, the young man she had recently hired to help with the sudden rise in business, was already there serving a few early morning shoppers. She entered her store under the now-familiar jingle of the bell overhead. Roger looked over and greeted her warmly. She returned the greeting and informed him that she'd be in the back room checking on the stock if he needed her.

When she was finally alone, she shut her eyes and took a deep breath. It looked like today was going to be one of the harder days. She almost wished she had stopped for a shot of firewhiskey. Almost.

Mentally putting on her brave face, she began to do her first task for the day: sort through and check the supply of her own brand of jeans, H-Jeans. They were becoming very popular very quickly among the young witches in England. With the help of a charm she'd created herself, the jeans would form themselves to perfectly fit and enhance the wearer's lower half, no matter the size or shape. The charm was kept a tight secret, and competitors were beginning to offer her huge deals in exchange for those few precious words.

No matter how sweet each offer was (and they were very sweet, to be sure), she never gave it away. The jeans meant more to her than she cared to admit; to let others have this part of her was something she was not willing to live with. Of all the things she promised herself, it was the one that she stuck to religiously.

The sorting done and inventory taken, she went back to the storefront where Roger was ringing up a pair of witches. On the counter were two pairs of H-Jeans, and as she watched the transaction take place, she couldn't help but feel mixed emotions. Not wanting to delve too deeply into them and their cause, she threw herself into her work for the next several hours, helping customers and being the good saleswoman she needed to be.

It's what Hermione would have wanted her to do.

Around three in the afternoon she was assisting a man in his early forties in purchasing jewelry for his teenage daughter whose birthday was in several days when the bell jingled innocuously, signaling a new customer. Roger was in the back on break, and Fleur glanced up to see who entered her shop.

Her chest nearly stopped mid-breath when she caught sight of the woman. Guilt sprang up immediately in reaction to this sudden attraction, yet she was unable to pinpoint exactly what about this woman made her breath catch. The woman was very pretty, yes; long red hair flowed down her back in waves and framed her face, complimenting her deep green eyes. Her nose was unremarkable, however; her mouth was curved in an unreadable expression at the moment as she took in the shop and the people inside it. Her eyes came to rest on Fleur, and her features became even more unreadable, if such a thing were possible.

Fleur finished helping the man and rang him up, watching the woman out of the corner of her eye the entire time. The redhead was browsing the wares, yet for some reason Fleur couldn't help but feel as though the woman was watching her as well.

The woman was making her…not nervous, per se, but Fleur could feel something close dangerously to adrenaline flowing through her veins. Roger came out front again and walked over to see if the woman needed any assistance while Fleur stayed behind the counter. She replied politely but negatively to his questions, and Fleur noticed her gaze turning towards the counter several times. Roger moved on and the woman selected a pair of H-Jeans from the rack, bringing them up to the counter.

Something in the way she moved reminded Fleur of someone… Her heart beating faster than she thought it should, she calmly asked the woman as she reached the counter, "Find everything alright?" Her smile looked natural, but she could feel the tension in her muscles from forcing it.

"Yes, thank you." The redhead replied, a curious smile on her face. "I'm new to town, but in the few short weeks that I've been here I have heard nothing but good things about this shop and your special brand of jeans, in particular."

Fleur thanked her and continued to ring up the pants. She could barely detect an accent, but damned if she could place it. The woman watched her, her features relaxing into the unreadable expression once more.

"A curious name, H-Jeans. How did you come up with it?"

Fleur's eyes widened a fraction of an inch, caught slightly off-guard by the question. Her mind immediately answered, "Her," but what came out of her mouth was, "It just came to me." Her smile was relaxed now, and she shrugged her shoulders as she handed her the bag.

The woman smiled again, taking her new purchase and holding the bag in one hand. "Well, if they're as wonderful as everyone says they are, I'm sure I'll be seeing you again…" she trailed off.

"Fleur," she replied smoothly.

"A pleasure, Fleur," the woman answered, holding her hand out. "I'm Marguerite."

Fleur shook the proffered hand. "The same to you, Marguerite. Have a nice day."

"Oh, I'm sure it will be now." She gave a cryptic smile and was out the door before Fleur had time to decode Marguerite's response thoroughly.

Shaking her head, Fleur tried to clear it. Her hand tingled from the contact.

_Whatever just happened_, she thought, _I'm certain that won't be the last I see of her…_


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Poem still isn't mine; I found it on the internet. Characters and universe belong to J.K., not me.

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Fleur's breath frosted the air in front of her as she closed and locked the door to her boutique. She whispered a few extra protection charms and pocketed the key. She pulled her coat tighter around herself in an effort to stave off the cold of the December evening around her. An unusually busy day left her feeling drained as the holidays quickly approached, and business was up since her H-Jeans had really taken off during the summer.

It had been months since Fleur first laid eyes on Marguerite, and as she walked home that evening her thoughts strayed back to that initial encounter like it had so many times before. It unsettled her to no end that she was still unable to pinpoint what exactly was so familiar about the woman or why she was suddenly so attracted to her. She knew it would be best for her to move on from Hermione; _it _has _been five years_, she acknowledged mentally. But somehow, every time she had this thought, her gut feeling would return, the one that said that there was still hope, that they would still be together someday.

Fleur knew in her mind it was impossible, yet her heart refused to listen as hearts often do.

Snowflakes silently fell past as she put the entered her apartment. It was comfortably furnished with leather furniture surrounding the fireplace in the main living area. With a flick of her wand a roaring fire started, throwing shadows dancing on the wall. She didn't bother to turn on any other lights as she headed into her bedroom, her coat thrown carelessly onto the back of the couch. Kneeling at the foot of her bed, she reached under it and pulled out a large, heavy box.

With a heart as heavy as the box in her hands, Fleur returned to the fireplace and sat in front of it. Unable to remember the last time she brought it out since the funeral, she looked at the box, daring herself to open it. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the box.

To say she was emotionally unprepared to face the box's contents would not be too off the mark. Pictures, a diary, notes of various sizes and colors, and other odds and ends that were mementos of their time together sat collected inside. On the very top, the first thing Fleur picked up with a sad smile playing on her lips was a color photograph of her and Hermione. In it, she sat smiling on a bench with Hermione standing behind her. Her arms were wrapped around Fleur's shoulders and her lips pressed to Fleur's cheek. Then Hermione moved, and Fleur turned to look up at her, large smiles on both faces as they leaned in for a proper kiss. The base of the Eiffel Tower stood in the background. It was where they shared their first kiss.

Fleur set the picture aside on the floor and picked up the next item inside.

It was a small slip of parchment, jagged edges revealing that it had been torn from a larger piece. Three words were written on one side; four were scribbled on the other. It was the first time they'd said that particular phrase to each other, and Fleur remembered exactly how it happened.

_It was the summer between Hermione's sixth and seventh year at Hogwarts. She spent the majority of it at the Burrow with the Weasley's, for safety reasons. Fleur was there as well, with Bill. Unknown to all other residents of the Burrow at the time, her feelings for Bill were dwindling rapidly and were growing just as quickly for Hermione—in earnest this time. The first time she'd met the brunette witch she could feel something inexplicable, but it hadn't been until the Yule Ball during that year that she'd realized just what it was._

_It took a lot of self-convincing (and a small amount of Firewhiskey) for Fleur to tell Hermione just before Beauxbatons left Hogwarts. Hermione hadn't known how to react initially, but blushed and said a quick thanks before rushing off. Fleur, realizing that she had somehow blown it with the girl, cursed her ill luck and decided to move on. It came as a pretty big surprise when she got an owl from her later that summer, saying she was in Paris on vacation and if Fleur wasn't doing anything, would she maybe want to do something together?_

_From then on they'd clicked, but both decided it would be best to keep the relationship secret. It was hard enough for the Grangers to learn their daughter was a witch; her being gay as well would have been a bit much for them to handle in a span of five years. When Hermione left for England again they stayed in touch, writing letters weekly._

_And then Bill happened. He was sweet and Fleur's mother approved. Plus school had started in the meantime for Hermione, making her letters few and far between. Fleur hated to admit it, but they drifted apart while Bill came in. _

_It wasn't until the following summer that she saw Hermione more and more at the burrow that her feelings began to resurface with a vengeance. Suddenly all the cute little things Bill did became tiresome and old, and Hermione had in the meantime flourished into an even more beautiful young woman. They spent an increasingly large amount of time together, often alone in the woods around the Burrow. Thanks to Hermione's Time Turner, none of the others were ever suspicious of their comings and goings._

_Fleur remembered it was a Friday, the day the note was exchanged. They had spent the afternoon in the woods, where they'd come across a small brook. The conversation didn't differ from any others they'd had, and they went back to the Burrow as usual. But then, after dinner, Fleur found the tiny scrap of parchment on her pillow in her room._

_"I love you."_

_The beautiful handwriting on it could only have been Hermione's. Bill's wasn't anywhere near as neat. He was out for the weekend with his brothers, anyway._

_Fleur was touched by the note and scribbled her simple reply on the other side before sneaking it onto Hermione's pillow while she was in the shower. She felt as though she was a teenager again, passing notes and giggling to herself in her room while waiting nervously to see what the reply would be._

_"I love you too," is what she had written._

_Fleur was lying in bed attempting to read. She was having trouble focusing, and was about to give up when there was a knock on her door. _

_"Come in," she called, not looking up. Her heart was beating faster than it ever had when she was expecting Bill. The door opened and she looked up, her eyes greeted with a freshly showered Hermione still wrapped in her towel, hair damp. With a mix of love and want in her eyes, Hermione shut the door._

That was also the first night they slept together.

Fleur shut her eyes at the memory, tears threatening to start. She was able to fight them until she reached in and grabbed another note written in the same elegant handwriting as the "I love you" she still held tightly in her left hand. She had found this note in a diary Hermione kept and gave Fleur access to.

_"Fleur,_

_I don't know if you'll ever read this. I hope not, because I'm leaving this for you in case I do not make it out of the fight with Lord Voldemort alive. Because if I don't, there are things I want you to know._

_I love you. There simply isn't any other way to say it. No matter what happens, always remember that. If there ever comes a time that you need comfort, or guidance, or anything at all, just know that I'm still with you. Nothing will ever change that._

_"Do not stand at my grave and weep;_

_I am not there, I do not sleep._

_I am a thousand winds that blow._

_I am the diamond glints on snow._

_I am the sunlight on ripened grain._

_I am the gentle autumn rain._

_When you awaken in the morning's hush_

_I am the swift uplifting rush_

_Of quiet birds in circled flight._

_I am the soft starts that shine at night._

_Do not stand at my grave and cry;_

_I am not there. I did not die."_

_I don't know who wrote that. I wish it was me, but I'm not that great with words. You know that. Whenever you need me, just read that poem. I will be there for you, always._

_Because that is how long I will love you. Always._

_Hermione"_

Fleur couldn't control the tears now, and they fall as if they'd been held in for a long time.

They had.

Even through her tears, Fleur reread the poem, a smile softening her features. Picking up the picture, she kissed it tenderly before placing it back on top of the other objects inside the box. She watched their kiss one last painful time before resealing the container.

Standing up, she carried it back to her bedroom and hid it under her bed before collapsing on top of it, falling into a restful slumber without even taking her clothes off.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: I don't even want to think about how long it's been. Enjoy.

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The days following her firelight reminiscing were surprisingly easier for Fleur to handle. The emotional catharsis it provided enabled her to go about her daily life at a heightened pace that made the aching in her heart a distant memory. It was ever-present, to be sure, just pushed into the back of her mind.

The difference in Fleur's demeanor was so noticeable that even Roger commented on it. She was flitting about in her boutique from customer to customer, a large smile on her face as she went. The two were on lunch break one afternoon, leaving the store in the hands of the two new witches she hired after the boom in Christmas sales gave her a chance to expand.

They made easy small talk about the state of the boutique as they ate. The two had become good friends while working together, so Roger didn't feel as awkward when he mentioned, "You know, Fleur, I think these past few days have been the most I've ever seen you smile."

Fleur looked at him, chewing her sandwich deliberately as if weighing his words. Finding the comment innocuous enough, she replied, "Well, I've got a lot to be happy for. My store is doing well and we've survived our first major holiday together. I think that's reason enough to be happy."

He nodded, apparently thinking about something deeply. He eyed her carefully as he voiced his thoughts: "I've been thinking, Fleur…"

She paused with her cup of water halfway to her mouth, stopped by his suddenly serious tone. "What is it, Roger?"

"Well, don't take this the wrong way. You just said it yourself that the store is doing great. So, I was thinking, well…" he trailed off, uncertain how to best word what he was going to say.

Fleur watched him grasp at words and quickly grew annoyed. "Just say it, Roger. Please."

"I think you should go on a vacation, Fleur. Now, hear me out. You hired me a couple of months after you opened this place up, and in all the time I've worked here you have never once had a day off. Quite frankly, I don't know how you do it. I think it's time for you to go off and relax, enjoy yourself."

Fleur sat looking at him, an amused look on her face in response to the nerve he was showing.

"Look, take a week off or something. You can leave the shop to me." When she continued to just stare at him, he kept rambling on. "Come on, Fleur. At least take the rest of today off. I can handle it." He smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging manner.

She took a drink of her water, still eyeing him. The two sat still for a moment, looking at each other while Fleur thought over his words. Finally:

"Very well. I will take the rest of today off, and think about taking a week off at some point."

"At some point soon?"

She sighed. "Yes, at some point _soon_. You are in charge of the shop for the rest of the day. Don't forget the extra locking charms when you close up."

Roger, finished with his lunch, stood to go back to the storefront. With a cheeky grin on his face from winning the conversation, he said "Yes ma'am" before disappearing through the doorway.

Fleur sighed. With her afternoon now free, she had to find something to do with it. But what? She knew she did not want to return to her home. She had not made many friends in England despite living there for quite some time, and the friends she had were back in France.

The thoughts crowding the back of her mind came surging to the front, and Fleur sat deliberating her next actions as she cleaned up the garbage from her lunch. With a sigh, she pulled her coat around her frame and headed out the door, mixed emotions flooding her head and heart for where she was going.

* * *

There were few things Fleur actually _hated_ in life. The English Metro system was one of them. The cars were crowded, loud, often smelly, and the amount of muggles swarming around her made her uncomfortable. Unfortunately, at this time of day it was the best way for her to travel to her destination.

She was headed to a small city outside London. She had last been there this time of year nearly five years ago. While not looking forward to what she was about to do in the slightest, she knew that it was something that had to happen sooner rather than later.

She disembarked at her stop and inhaled deeply once she had cleared the Metro station and stood once more in clear English air. It had a different quality than French air, and although she could not really recall what the difference was, she knew she preferred the French version.

Her destination was a short walk from the station. Her stylish leather boots clicked neatly on the sidewalk as she went. As she passed muggles on the street she gave them very little thought, her mind suddenly focused as the gray shapes in the distance grew larger and larger until she was walking in their midst, the finely manicured lawns given an equivalent amount of attention as her nails.

Despite the time elapsed since her last visit, she knew the way to the tombstone like it was the back of her hand. Before it registered to her racing mind, the gray slab marking Hermione's resting place stood grimly before her in the rare February sunshine. She leaned down and brushed the small amount of accumulated snow off the stone's engraving, tears already threatening to break her carefully constructed composure.

Fleur was unaware of time's flow as she stood there. Seconds, minutes, months, years, decades, the end of time—any or all could have passed by without her knowledge of it. All she was aware of was the sudden pain in her chest, the burning of her eyes as the tears stung in the wind that suddenly picked up, and the frustration growing from the voice inside her that stubbornly told her to have faith that Hermione was alive.

Being back at the gravesite, the pain Fleur had worked so hard to get past and live through resurfaced. She now found herself on her knees in the dusting of snow that covered the ground, her makeup a mess on her face as she wept, truly _wept_, over the loss of Hermione. The mourning she couldn't allow herself to go through those five years ago was finally given its release.

When she reached the point where tears turned into the empty feeling of nothing, she felt her body relax. Roger was right—she needed to take a day off. Maybe his suggestion of taking a whole week to herself wasn't such a bad—

Fleur tensed as she sensed that she was being watched. Looking around, there was a family with small children visiting a grave farther down the pathway, but they were too focused on their own grief to spare her a glance. They were the only other visible people in the cemetery, and Fleur felt a chill run up and down her spine. She stood, whispered a goodbye in her voice still shaken by the intensity of her grief, and quickly made her way back to the Metro station.

Not caring about the questionable cleanliness of the car, Fleur sat in the back and did her best to discreetly clean up her face with minimal magic usage. When her face was once again presentable, she fell limply against the back of her seat and let it loll from side to side. She was emotionally, physically, and mentally drained. She closed her eyes and did her best to not think.

Several stops later, she opened her eyes to see how much longer she had to ride the train. They pulled into another station, and as she watched people board, she caught a glimpse of shoulder-length wavy brunette hair. Her heart skipped a beat in her chest, and the hopeful voice inside her jumped enthusiastically inside her.

She stood as the doors shut and the train lurched forward, and she had to grasp a handrail for balance. Continuing her way to the train connection, she opened the door to the next car just in time to see a familiar form and its accompanying brown locks disappear through into the next car up.

This mini-chase continued for two more cars, and Fleur could swear at one point that she heard the faintest trace of Hermione's laughter as she fought her way through the crowded cars in pursuit of her ghost. At the next stop, she reached the last car as the doors opened. She was halfway through the compartment when she glanced out the window and saw her lover's shadow exiting the station platform into whatever town they were at.

Fleur mentally slapped herself hard. How silly was she, following someone from Metro car to car just because she looked (and sounded) just like Hermione?

I must be going mental, she thought. Maybe I do need that vacation.

She made up her mind on the spot, knowing where she had to go to get away from it all, if even for a short time. She needed to clear her mind. She needed to do it soon.

She needed to go to Paris.


End file.
